


my cathedral is the badlands

by nevershootamockingbird



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Blasphemy, Established Relationship, Families of Choice, Friendship, Future Fic, Multi, Murder, Post-Canon, UnDeadwood, Western Gothic, the reverend is a protective man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 17:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21201104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevershootamockingbird/pseuds/nevershootamockingbird
Summary: “Ain’t prayin’ for me, are ya?” Slurred and soft at the edges, the words bring a fond smile to Matthew’s face. He stills his hand, sliding it down to settle on the back of Clayton’s neck as he twists his head just enough to kiss his partner’s temple. The affection earns him a drowsy hum, the flicker of a smile against his skin.If this isn’t heaven, Matthew doesn’t know that he wants to go there.“No, I’m not praying for you,” he promises, smudging another kiss to his lover’s temple. Clayton’s breathing is slow, uneven, just on the brink of unconsciousness; Matthew squeezes his neck gently as he murmurs, “You’re safe, Clayton. I’m going to keep you safe.”“Stubborn fool,” but there’s no heat behind the words, just fondness, and then his breathing evens out, finally succumbing to sleep. Matthew stares up at the ceiling, his own lids growing heavy, and traces his thumb lightly over his partner’s pulse.The steady thrum follows him down into his dreams.





	my cathedral is the badlands

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece much faster than I expected, and I'm really proud of it. I hope y'all enjoy it!!
> 
> Post-canon again, no spoilers. 
> 
> The Reverend is a protective man, and Clayton's past is no match for him.

"I'm a dead man walking, Matt," Clayton murmurs, lips brushing against the thin skin of his neck, and Matthew holds him closer, hands clutching more tightly than he means to. 

The way his partner shudders all over before going limp against him, he doesn't think the other man minds too much. 

From what Clayton's told them all, from what more he's told just him, during early mornings and sleepless nights, Matthew knows he has reasons to be afraid. The knowledge he has now goes a long way to explaining how skittish he was in the early days of their lives intersecting and tangling together, how easily spooked the other man was the closer they grew, the tics and habits he keeps now.

He doesn't voice any of these thoughts now, though. 

Now, he just strokes one hand up Clayton's back slow and easy, tracing over the odd scar, until he can bury his fingers in the other man's hair. Matthew swallows hard before saying, “You’re not dying on my watch, Clay.”

A soft huff of air washes over his neck, lips pressing into flesh and dragging slow. His voice is barely audible when speaks, “Just a matter of time. Don’t think there’s anything that can keep me safe.”

Matthew hums low, eyes tracing over patterns in the wood grain of the ceiling, and coils his arm tighter around his partner’s waist. He runs blunt nails over Clayton’s scalp, combs out tangles until his fingers no longer snag, keeps up his ministrations until the other man is boneless over him, sighing and rumbling like a damn house cat. 

His chest aches. Matthew wonders if this is what devotion truly feels like. 

The town is quiet, this late at night, when midnight has come and gone, and the breeze that drifts in through the cracked window is mild, a comforting balm over bare skin and tangled sheets. He starts humming, something nonsensical and half-remembered from his childhood, tries not to think on what he would do were something to ever happen to the man in his arms.

He can only imagine a bloodbath, can only imagine his nails and hands so stained with it that he never would be able to wash it off, nevermind the stains such actions would surely leave on his soul. It’s not a hard image to stomach.

Nothing would be too hard to stomach, not for the man cradled against him. 

“Ain’t prayin’ for me, are ya?” Slurred and soft at the edges, the words bring a fond smile to Matthew’s face. He stills his hand, sliding it down to settle on the back of Clayton’s neck as he twists his head just enough to kiss his partner’s temple. The affection earns him a drowsy hum, the flicker of a smile against his skin. 

If this isn’t heaven, Matthew doesn’t know that he wants to go there. 

“No, I’m not praying for you,” he promises, smudging another kiss to his lover’s temple. Clayton’s breathing is slow, uneven, just on the brink of unconsciousness; Matthew squeezes his neck gently as he murmurs, “You’re safe, Clayton. I’m going to keep you safe.”

“Stubborn fool,” but there’s no heat behind the words, just fondness, and then his breathing evens out, finally succumbing to sleep. Matthew stares up at the ceiling, his own lids growing heavy, and traces his thumb lightly over his partner’s pulse. 

The steady thrum follows him down into his dreams.

* * *

“I should’ve prayed for you last night,” he grouses, pressing his face into his pillow as Clayton runs a hand down his spine. The other man laughs, sitting on the edge of the mattress. 

“Oh, is that right?” He asks, amused and disgustingly awake, and Matthew hums agreement, tilting his his head just enough to peer through one cracked eye at his partner. 

Clayton is mostly dressed, shirtsleeves rolled up and vest undone, two mugs held in his hands, steam curling up like ghosts. Matthew pushes himself up onto one elbow with some effort, blinking blearily as he reaches out to take one of the tin cups, sipping slowly at the strong coffee. It helps him to hide his smile when he says, “I should have prayed for you to leave me be this fucking early.”

Clayton laughs, head tipping back and eyes crinkling at the corners, and Matthew feels his breath gust out of his lungs suddenly, struck dumb by the beauty of the man in front of him. The other man seems oblivious to his struggle, just smiles warmly as his mirth subsides. “You’re the one who agreed when Miriam suggested the time.”

“Yes, well, that’s because I know better than to disagree,” he mutters, taking another large swallow of coffee. He hears Clayton chuckle, then the mattress shifts as his partner stands; he isn’t expecting the sudden hand braced against his thigh, the brush of his lips against his shoulder, but he welcomes it gladly. 

He’s coaxed out of bed by warm lips and the promise of more coffee, although Clayton stays just out of his reach as he finishes getting dressed, as he follows him through the kitchen and out onto the porch, a teasing smile curling at his lips. He lets himself be caught as the front door shuts behind him, and Matthew wraps one arm tightly around his waist as he molds himself against Clayton’s back, using his free hand to pull his partner’s hat off. 

“You’re a menace, Mr. Sharpe,” he accuses, though he imagines the effect is rather ruined by the smiling kiss he presses to the other man’s bristled cheek. Clayton chuckles, relaxing back into him and nudging into his mouth, and Matthew kisses him again before straightening, leaning his cheek against his partner’s temple. 

Despite the early hour, he’s willing to admit there is a certain kind of magic to the peace of the morning, the fog still yet to dissipate entirely, the town beyond the church still sleepy and not yet risen. The magic might have rather more to do with the warm body in his arms, though. 

“C’mon,” Clayton coaxes after a few minutes, squeezing the hand around his waist before gently pulling away, turning as he does. A gentle smile stretches across his face, eyes warm and soft, and Matthew has to lean down to kiss him, quick and easy. Clayton reaches up to catch his jaw in both hands, holds him there to deepen the kiss for another moment, then lets go, grabs his hat from Matthew’s loose grip as he does. “C’mon, Bella said somethin’ ‘bout cinnamon rolls. You gonna let Aly eat ‘em all before we even get the chance to get there?”

“Lead the way,” he says with a smile, and Clayton smiles, settling his hat back onto his head before turning to stride off the porch, weak sunlight nearly illuminating him in the fog. 

Matthew, as ever, follows. 

* * *

He’s banished from the kitchen, has been ever since he nearly burned his own house down trying to boil water, and so he’s alone in the living room when Aloysius sprawls out on the couch next to him and says, “Heard there’s a couple new folks in town, workin’ over in Mr. Hearst’s camp.”

Matthew raises a curious eyebrow, watches as Aly takes a slow sip of his coffee, waits. There’s something tight in the line of his mouth, and it makes an answering beat of concern reverberate through his chest. 

“Heard they been askin’ questions ‘bout a man known as Coffin,” he finally says, real slow and quiet, and Matthew feels ice flood his veins. 

“That so?” He asks, just as quiet, and his friend nods once, humming low.

“Mhmm. Ain’t got no names yet, but you should check with Arabella. Think she's heard, too, might have some more information.” He glances over towards the kitchen, where laughter echoes out towards them, and Matthew clenches his jaw, knuckles creaking as his grip tightens around his mug. 

“Thank you, Aly.” A nod, and he waits for the other man to look back at him before asking, “Have you told Clayton of this yet?”

“Nope,” and it's said with a small smile, hard eyes, “I thought you might like to know first.”

“Much obliged. Would you do me a favor and be sure he doesn't hear about it?” He asks, as casual as he can manage, and Aly grins wide and a little vicious, inclining his head towards him.

“You got yourself a deal, Reverend.” It’s a little easier to relax, then, sip slowly at their coffee until Miriam pokes her head around the corner some ten minutes later, smiling slyly. 

“Y'all can come in now, long as you keep your hands to yourself, Matthew.” Aloysius laughs as they stand, clapping Matthew on the shoulder as he sighs. 

“May God strike that memory from all your minds,” he says mildly, and Miriam laughs, tossing her head back as she rounds the corner again. 

Later, after rolls and kisses that taste of cinnamon, after more slowly admitted secrets, after laughter and content quiet, Matthew offers to help Arabella clean up. The others head for the living room, intent at looking over a telegram Miriam had received, and then it’s just the two of them at the sink, basin slowly filling with warm water. 

“Aly told you?” She glances at him askance, waits for him to nod before continuing, voice soft, “They've been here for a week, but just started askin’ around for him a day or so ago.”

“Do you know their names yet?” He asks, rolling his sleeves up neatly, and Arabella snorts inelegantly, casting a reproachful look at him as she begins washing mugs.

“I do, but I couldn't tell you if they're their given names or made up. One’s a tall fellow with a scar on the side of his neck and tattoos on the backs of his hands,” she tells him, and Matthew listens closely even as he scrubs at the used plates. “Other man's short and reedy looking, green eyes. Go by the names of Miles Teller and John Whittenger, respectively.”

“Thank you very much.” A hum of acknowledgement, and then they're both quiet as they finishing cleaning and drying the dishes. She turns to look at him then, wiping her hands with a towel, and Matthew meets her gaze steadily. 

“Do you want one of us to handle this, Mason?” Arabella asks, gentle and without judgement, and he feels a surge of affection for her, for all of their small, broken family, all so willing to do anything for anyone. 

It makes what the ideas seeping into his brain that much easier. 

“Not how you're thinking, no. Give me a day or so to make a plan, Bella, then I'll fill you in.” Arabella smiles, sharp and fierce, and nods once. 

“Alright. Let's go see what all the fuss is about then, shall we?” She offers, and Matthew chuckles, sweeping his arm out in front of them. 

“After you, ma’am,” said in his most pious manner, just to get her to laugh and shove at him as she walks pat. He follows after, catching sight of Clayton where he’s bent over paper on the coffee table, deep in conversation with Miriam and Aloysius. 

Matthew’s heart constricts, and he thinks that he’ll damned before he ever lets anyone take this man from him.

* * *

Thirty-six hours later, while Clayton is safe playing cards with Arabella and Aloysius inside, two men are forced to their knees behind the Bella Union. 

"You're a goddamn preacher," Teller spits, fear and fury warring across his face. "What the hell kind of a preacher murders in cold blood?"

"A good one," Miriam says coolly, clicking the safety off her revolver and leveling it at Whittenger. 

Matthew takes a deep breath, presses the end of Arabella's pistol to the forehead of the man who'd spoken, and pulls the trigger without a second thought. Miriam follows suit, wiping her revolver clean with a spare rag before offering it to Matthew, watching dispassionately as the two dead men slump against the decrepit outer wall of the saloon. 

"Alright, honey?" Miriam asks, looking up at him with gentle eyes. He hums low, feels a slow smile spreading across his face, something dark and satisfied thrumming in his chest. 

"Absolutely," he tells her, and his friend grins up at him then, eyes flashing. 

She pockets her revolver, then the pistol he offers her, before looping her arm through his and leading him away from the building. "Well then, I think you better finish what you promised and escort a lady to get the flask she left at the dancehall, don't you?"

"Right away, Mrs. Landisman. An honorable man always keeps his promises." How he manages to school his features into a straight face, he'll never really be sure. Miriam laughs the whole way to the dancehall. 

Back in the Bella Union, he takes the seat next to Clayton once more, relaxing into the chair as he tries to catch up on the story Aloysius is telling. Miriam settles in next to Arabella, pressing a kiss to her mouth before pulling the other woman as close as possible, eyes gleaming with happiness as she turns back to the rest of the table.

Two dead men lie in the mud outside; inside, Matthew laughs with his friends and settles a hand on his partner's knee. He doesn't give them a second thought. 

That dark, possessive satisfaction continues to bleed warm behind his breastbone.

* * *

"For the lord is my shepherd, and I shall not want," he murmurs, and Clayton groans beneath him, shuddering hard. 

"Oh, goddamn it,  _ Matt _ ," he gasps, head tilting back as Matthew rolls his hips forward again. He lowers his weight down, ducking to lick at his partner's throat, tasting the clean sweat and salt of his skin. He grinds in, groaning at the hot clench of Clayton around his cock, and bites down at the tendon under his mouth. 

Blunt nails scratch up his back, and he damn near snarls, hips stuttering before he begins to thrust faster, lifting his head to catch Clayton’s mouth in a messy kiss. His partner licks his way into his mouth, and Matthew moans, rhythm stuttering again. Pleasure jolts up his spine, pooling heavy in his stomach, and he’s panting when Clayton finally breaks the kiss, pupils blown so wide that Matthew can scarcely see the blue of his iris. 

He wants nothing more than to worship this man for the rest of his life. 

“God above, Clayton,” and he shudders when his partner clenches around him, moaning brokenly. Matthew shifts his weight to one arm, sliding his other hand between them to curl around where Clayton’s cock is pressed hard and leaking between their bodies. 

Clayton fucking  _ keens _ , and Matthew snaps his hips forward, stroking his partner’s cock once, twice before Clayton spills over his hand with a bitten off curse, nails sinking into his shoulders. 

If he's lucky, it'll leave him bleeding. 

He slows his hips, panting unevenly as he releases his partner’s dick, bringing his hand up to lick it clean. The bitter taste is better than any fucking communion he’s taken. 

“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” Clayton gasps, grinning hazily, and he smooths one hand up into Matthew’s hair, threading through the short strands. He rolls his hips down where Matthew is still seated inside of him, hard and wanting, and it draws a helpless moan from his throat, hips hitching forward in response. His partner hums low, boneless beneath him as he murmurs, “Go on, then, you know I can take it. Wanna watch you fall apart, too”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Matthew groans, rocking his hips forward slowly. Clayton lets out a deeply contented sound, low and guttural, and it makes him go hot all over, gasping when his partner tugs his head down to nip at his lower lip. His other hand slides down the slick skin of his spine, until he grabs a handful of his ass, fingers digging in. It frays the last measure of control Matthew has, and he begins to rut forward desperately, balls drawing up tight.

“C'mon, Matt,” Clayton drawls, coaxes, tongue flicking out against his mouth, “Fill me up.”

Matthew comes with a near sob, hips jerking as he empties himself into the other man, and Clayton hums with pleasure underneath him, stroking gentle hands over his back. He shudders, slows, stills as his orgasm subsides, resting his forehead against Clayton’s. 

“There y’go,” his partner murmurs, brushing their mouths together, and Matthew hums low, pushes himself up on shaky arms and carefully draws his softening cock out of Clayton’s ass. The other man stretches, lazy and fucked out, and it takes everything in him to actually get out of bed rather than just collapsing back down over him. 

It's enough to grab a clean cloth, but the low whistle behind him gives him pause, has him glancing back to find Clayton propped up on an elbow, the curve of his mouth smug and satisfied. 

“Might wanna grab a second one,” he offers, winking before dropping back down against the mattress. “Tore up your back more than intended.”

“Good.” Matthew smiles, ignoring the flush creeping up the back of his neck and grabbing a second rag, dampening them both before walking back over to the bed. 

He drops one on Clayton’s face, grinning at the undignified grunt it earns him. He uses the other to gently wiping his chest and stomach clean before reaching down between his legs, keeping his touch light as wipes the mess away. He tosses the rag aside a little carelessly as he shifts to sit on the mattress next to Clayton’s hip, pleasant exhaustion settling into his bones. 

“Don't fall asleep on me jus’ yet.” His partner's voice is fond, amused, and Matthew opens his eyes, unsure of when they shut. A gentle kiss is pressed to his shoulder as the cloth swipes over his back, stinging sweetly where it passes over the open scrapes and cuts. 

Clayton tosses the cloth aside when he's done, and it's easy for Matthew to let him tug and arrange them both until he's on his side facing the window, Clayton pressed up behind him so close there's no space left. 

He reaches to cover the hand on his stomach, tangling their fingers together as his eyes shut once more. “I love you.”

“I know,” murmured quietly, a kiss pressed to the back of his neck, and Matthew hums drowsily, squeezing the hand under his. Clayton sighs softly, a warm puff of air against his skin. “I love you, Matt.”

Matthew falls asleep with a clean conscience and the tattoos of Clayton’s heart beating against his back. 

When he dreams, it is only of quiet love. 

* * *

The quiet, stricken “ _ Matthew _ ,” is the only warning he gets before he's grabbed by the shoulder and turned around, then shoved up against the side of his church. He has an armful of gunslinger before he knows what's going on, lips against his insistent and desperate, and Matthew reacts in kind, pulls Clayton in closer and fists his hands in the back of his coat, opens his mouth and groans at the tongue that swipes over his own. 

He's panting when Clayton finally breaks the kiss, chest heaving, and there's a mess of emotions crossing his partner’s face too quickly for him to name. He licks his lips, shaking his head once to try and clear his mind as he asks, “Not that I'm complaining, but what was th--”

“What the hell were you thinkin’?” Clayton cuts him off quietly, one hand still fisted in the lapel of his coat, other hand holding his jaw firm. The leather of his gloves is warm against Matthew's skin. 

He doesn't need to ask to know what his partner is referring to, now. 

He meets that confused blue gaze steady on, voice even as he says, “I was thinking that I wasn't going to let anyone risk your safety or take you away from me.”

A sound punches out of Clayton, soft and hurt, and Matthew tries to tug him closer, knocking the other man's hat off and pressing their foreheads together. 

“Aloysius told me, and Arabella knew more,” he explains quietly, threading fingers through thick hair, “And they agreed to keep you distracted. Miriam helped me get them. I looked that man in the eye, and I shot him in the head, and I slept like a babe in your arms. I would do it again, a dozen times over. We all would, Clayton.”

“Why?” And it's a soft, broken word, one Matthew has to kiss away, soft and slow, pouring as much of his love into it as he can. Clayton's eyes are damp when he pulls away, his breathing unsteady, and Matthew feels like his heart's been cut out of his chest. 

“Because,” he says, gentle and insistent, “Because I love you, we all do. Because not a damn thing, in this world or the holy one, would stop me from keeping you safe, Clayton Sharpe.”

“You're a goddamn fool,” Clayton tells him, and Matthew laughs quietly, nodding and nudging their noses together. His partner smiles, then, a beautiful, fragile thing, hand gentling on his face. “You're my fool, though, and I'll be damned if I ever let you go.” 

“I'm glad we agree,” and then he's being kissed again, and he's kissing back with everything he has, his entire world cradled between his arms. 

There, pressed up against the side of the church, with Clayton Sharpe sighing into his mouth, Matthew thinks he's found his true religion.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it, I absolutely loved writing this and trying to explore their characters and relationships more. 
> 
> Title is from "Chasing Twisters" by Delta Rae. It seemed fitting for the kind of story I was trying to tell. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! You can find me over on [tumblr](https://nevershootamockingbird.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/daleytwin1) if you feel like yelling with me about these characters, this show, or, you know, anything else!


End file.
